Word: kiosks
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...summer, horses on Washington streets heave and collapse. Eggs are fried on the northwest corner of 14th street and Pennsylvania Avenue. Idlers gather about the Weather Bureau's kiosk 100 yards away to watch the thermometer break 100° at midafternoon. Downtown streets are virtually deserted from 11 a. m. to 4 p. m. Men-in-the-street go about in their shirt sleeves...
Accompanied by his wife, his daughter, Mr. Walton entered a kiosk. From the platform he surveyed with disfavor a gloomy pathway, splotched with grime and puddles, lined with tracks. "Whatever would they want tracks for?" he inquired of his wife as the three of them jumped down off the platform, paraded off into the dingy passage. Soon a train nosed around the curve, gathered speed, screamed toward Mr. Walton, his wife, his daughter, ground brakes, shivered, stopped. Passengers, lifting themselves from the floor where the abrupt halt had put them, watched Mr. Walton, his wife, his daughter clamber aboard, smiling...
...crones and lasses who sell magazines from Parisian kiosks on the grand boulevards were elated last week when a lean stalwart priest, the Abbé Bethlehem, 57, was finally arrested after he had seized from the kiosks and torn up at least 300 copies of those magazines in which the feminine thigh is perennially displayed in frilly netherthings like the paper lace on a lamb chop. Heedless that he had taken coppers from the purses and bread from the mouths of kiosk women too weak to resist him, the strapping Abbé cried: "If I saw poison being offered...
Next day, one Jean Henri Baptiste Brieux, son of a poor kiosk woman, entered several shops where religious knick-knacks were on sale, seized and dashed upon the ground some two dozen cheap plaster figurines of the Blessed Virgin. Arrested, he explained: "In revenge for 30 copies of La Vie Parisienne and nine of Le Sourire seized from my mother and torn up by the Abbé Bethlehem, I smashed a few of those idolatrous images sold by the accomplices of priesthood. They seem to me fully as poisonous to the soul as any magazine my mother ever sold...
...portly kiosk women of Warsaw, genial news venders, beamed red and perspiring last week in their little booths, changed many a hastily proffered zloty, sold twice their usual quota of newspapers...